


Like a Wretched Little Beast

by Spinchip (Thatkindghost)



Category: Lego Ninjago
Genre: Gen, Mentions of blood and gore, Nightmares, POV Second Person, Post S11, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28973925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thatkindghost/pseuds/Spinchip
Summary: After the Never Realm, you can't sleep without nightmares keeping you awake.(Nightmares where you die. Nightmares where your friends kill you.)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	Like a Wretched Little Beast

**Author's Note:**

> Zane is not in a good headspace in this, his thoughts reflect his self hatred over ns11. heed the warnings please
> 
> Blood and gore tag is imagined, not any ninjago characters, and not detailed
> 
> The title comes from the Nutcracker and The Mouse King

Pixal won’t sleep in the same bed as you anymore, she says you struggle and lash out in your sleep. It’s fine, things have changed between you anyway. Your piece of the puzzle doesn’t fit right anymore. you’ve been the odd one out before but they’ve found a place for you anyway- now your edges are jagged. is there a spot for a piece like you?

(You fit perfectly on the throne, didn’t you? do you miss it?)

(Where's your staff?)

You have this recurring dream where your friends hold you down and tear your wires out one by one, until you die.

You sleep less and more because of it, the threat of it leaving you restless and twitchy. The promise of it is nearly a comfort. Do you love your nightmare because it’s familiar in a world that isn’t, anymore? Do you love your nightmare because it feels like punishment?

(What do you deserve?)

You’re outside because you think you might like it out here. You’re outside mostly because it’s where no one else is. When Lloyd pats your shoulder you can’t help but think of the anger on his face, in your dream, and the oil on his hands.

The stars are out because it’s night time and you should be in bed asleep, but you can’t fall asleep because your friends are waiting for you there, and you’re not prepared to reap what you’ve sowed. The harvest is not a kind thing, but neither was the planting of the seeds. You used blood instead of water, didn’t you?

Footsteps, pausing and stumbling, checking rooms. Who’s looking for you?

It’s cold out here, and you know that because of the temperature gauge on your HUD, not because you can feel it. You can’t. The cold had never touched you in any way that stung, not like it stings kai now, who had to squint at the blast of chilly air, who coughs at the roughness of it. It’s too cold for him to be out here, but he’s stupid.

(He’s not stupid, of course, but you find sometimes that words that used to come easy don’t anymore. You can’t remember a word that describes him better, at this moment.)

You’re laying in the middle of the courtyard on the grass, staring up at the sky, when he shivers and stumbles his way out to find you. You have to turn your head to see him, but you don’t do that. He hisses, sighs, and out of the corner of your eye he scrubs at his face. You think if you look at him now he’ll have that sickeningly familiar look of frustration on his face- maybe you’ve hastened the inevitability of your nightmares along, and he’ll strike you down here and now. There’s nothing saying it was only a dream, and not a vision.

(Which would you prefer? That’s a loaded question, don’t answer that.)

He doesn’t lay a hand on you. Are you disappointed?

(Do you want him to touch you? Are you starving?)

He settles on the earth next to you, grumbling and griping the whole way down, curling up as much as he can in his threadbare robe and tank top to keep out the chill. It stings his skin. You can’t even feel it. What do you feel? Anything at all? No tears threaten your eyes even as your thoughts spiral. Kai is staring at the side of your face, waiting for you to look at him. Probably. You can’t read him like you used to, you’re not sure what he wants from you anymore. You’re out of place.

Can he still read you? Or is it like flipping to the end of a book after you’d only read the first chapter?

(Do you consider this the end?)

“What are you thinking about?” Kai whispers as if afraid to break the silence. How long has he been watching you? Time slips through your fingers like sand.

You glance at him, and you were right- he’s frustrated, but it’s a miniscule part of his expression. The most prominent, pressing thing you see after that frustration is the tears, and the worry. Kai has always been comfortable in anger when vulnerability eats at his skin, but here, underneath the weight of the sky, he’s lost that piece of armor. He’s crying over you. Does that make you feel something? He cares. Does that make you happy? You’re hurting him. Does that make you sad? Maybe it’s that same weight sitting across your chest that makes you tell him the truth. Maybe it’s the tears in his eyes. Maybe it’s nothing at all.

“Dreams.” you tell him, because the truth is slippery and malleable and you can adjust it to suit your needs.

(Didn’t you learn that in the Never realm? Didn’t _he_ teach you that? Did the lessons sink it? Did it hurt?)

You don’t need to tell him outright that you were thinking about dying, about that relief. This is close enough.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he’s understanding, but you can’t accept that.

“No.” you answer too quickly, too harshly. There is no room for gentleness in your tone, there is no room for mercy in your heart. blood on your hands. oil coating your friends fingers. your death is a cycle of violence you started coming to it’s thematic end, or maybe it’s just penance. would the Ferryman’s boat be able to carry the weight of your soul?

The stars spin in the sky above your head in the mockery of a dance, a performance just for you on the largest stage in ninjago. You imagine the orchestra backing it all, swelling and sharp and sad as the ballet reaches it’s peak. They twist above your head and if you squint you can almost pretend you see the form of the Nutcracker, his sword bloody and the severed head of the rat king held aloft in triumph.

“I wish I knew how to help you.” His fingers curl in the dirt of the courtyard, nails catching on the grass. He wants to reach out, but decides against it.

(Can anyone help you now? Are you too far gone? Is the chasm you’re made up of too big a wound to bridge?)

He scoots closer, pleading, but you won’t look at him, “What can I do?” he asks, he begs.

You stare up at the sky, the lifeless eyes of the rat king twinkling back at you. It’s cold and it should sting but you don’t feel anything anymore.

“Go back inside.” You tell him, because it’s too chilly for him out here. Because inside is where you aren’t.

There’s a long silence, overflowing with disbelief. The dismissal is more frigid than the night air- but he goes, because you asked it of him, and he cares, you think. Maybe. It’s getting harder to tell. He’s not crying anymore.

After he’s gone, you close your eyes.

(you know what’s waiting for you behind your eyelids. Do you deserve to watch it?)

You have this recurring dream where your friends hold you down and tear your wires out one by one, until you die.

In the blissful moment between the familiar embrace of death and the cold-shock of being thrust back into the waking world-

You’re completely at peace.


End file.
